We're Becoming Old, John
by somevelvetmorning
Summary: With age comes wisdom, and a sense of urgency - Sherlock confronts John about why exactly he has stayed with him for so long.


The lights in the flat had been dim. There was a soft pitter patter of rain bouncing off of the sidewalk, the roof, forming puddles.

Watson sat in his chair, without movement. He stared straight ahead. He began to run his nail through upholstery, absentminded. His laptop was only an arms length away, sitting on the petite table beside him. He made no attempt to reach for it.

Soft footsteps echoed from the hallway, Holmes stepped lightly and glanced into the room. He eyed Watson and sat down in his own chair, directly across. He crossed his leg over, leaning forward, as if to study his movements. Eyes blank. Almost.

Watson did not acknowledge Holmes' presence.

"What are you thinking about?"

A sharp, terse voice shattered the silence. Watson blinked and focused on Holmes' intent gaze.

"Why do you ask?" he replied, his voice was tired. He rubbed the creases in his forehead.

"In an attempt to be civil." Holmes leaned backwards and laid his head on the back of his chair.

The room became silent again, Watson habitually rubbing his face and Holmes resting with his eyes closed.

The doctor slowly rose and began to walk back to his bedroom. He was hunched over slightly, rubbing his neck and watching the ground as he went. The voice rang again.

"We're becoming old, John."

He turned and faced the detective, subconsciously slumping. He blinked a few times and rubbed his hand.

"Suppose so." There was nothing in his voice anymore.

The detective rose as well.

"I won't live long."

Watson was silent for some time.

"That's what you said years ago." He replied, staring him in the eyes. Holmes stared back intently.

"I didn't know then." His voice was quieter this time.

"You couldn't have."

"Indeed."

Both men stood awkwardly, Watson stretching his toes across the wood floor.

"John." He looked up at Holmes instantly.

"Why did you stay?"

There was no reply from John for a period of time, he stood looking at a specific spot in the room before turning back to Sherlock.

"I don't know."

Everything was still.

Watson began meddling with his hands again, rubbing his neck and face. Holmes, breaking the pattern of sluggish movements, began walking towards his own bedroom. He did not look at the doctor as he walked by, quietly disappearing. Watson sighed heavily and turned to the direction of his quarters and began walking. He held his hand steady to the wall, there was no railing to grip. His legs shook.

When he reached his bed, he slowly lowered himself on and took a deep breath. He repeated his habits. He rubbed his face, ran his hands through his hair. Stared at the wall.

The sound of footsteps returned. There was a barely noticeable noise that came from the door. He heard the footsteps disappear once again. The doctor stood slowly and walked towards it. There was a slip of paper lying on the ground.

 _You stayed because you adored me._

Watson looked at the slip and back up at the door. He turned and laid down in his bed, setting the paper on his nightstand delicately. He stared at the wall again, this time clutching his chest tightly.

The footsteps returned.

The door creaked open, Holmes' face appearing in the crack. He quietly stepped in, eyeing the paper and then Watson. Watson sat up slowly and faced the detective. He stared at him, unfazed.

Until he nodded.

He nodded softly, looking directly at him. Holmes began to move his feet. He sat down next to him on his bed, hands in his lap, looking down at the floor. Watson looked up at him, soft eyes. He let his hand move to touch his hair, move his head to his shoulder. John attempted to rub Sherlock's hand in his, but there was no response form the detective. He was completely motionless.

"I'm sorry."

The doctor's face contorted slightly, wrinkles forming. He firmly grasped their hands together, unknowingly forming the stance of a soldier.

"Stay with me tonight."

Sherlock nodded. He laid down on John's bed, his right eyebrow nervously twitching. His fingers shook a little, almost not noticeable. John let his body sink into the duvet, next to him.

Sherlock remained stiff until he drifted off, nearly touching him.

John could not fall asleep. He listened to the patter on the window.


End file.
